


Incandescent

by grayorca, YearwalktheWorld



Series: Triverse [15]
Category: Castle Rock (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 10:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayorca/pseuds/grayorca, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YearwalktheWorld/pseuds/YearwalktheWorld
Summary: AU/Crossover. Breaking the rules to try and do his job.Typical.





	Incandescent

**Author's Note:**

> A mini-sequel to _Malinger_. Takes place between chapters 15/16 of _Trifecta_.
> 
> AKA definitive proof our version of Connor is a brat.
> 
> We love him anyway.

Stratford Tower left him feeling slighted and sore, in more ways than one. But he could handle it. He could cope. The maxed out capacitors that were his memory banks just needed time to collate. A few discreet sneezes cleared up the worst blockages currently plaguing his ventilation filters.

For the umpteenth time, Connor dismissed the error messages attesting to the entrance/exit wounds in his right shoulder and left bicep. Nominal damage, which didn’t exactly hurt, it was easy enough to disregard. There was no reason to seek repairs. His own self-healing programs had successfully clotted the bleeding, even if his regenerative routines were performing almost sub par. Maybe he had overestimated his body’s own abilities to doctor itself.

But he wasn’t going to tell his partners that.

Because stubbornness (it turned out) was also one of his features.

——-

Gibberish.

The journal was complete and utter gibberish. A few pages into attempting to decipher the coded, maze-overladen syntax, Connor found himself on the verge of cursing, tossing the old leather bound book against a wall in a fit of childish belligerence.

Or maybe that was just the aggravation needling for attention. Lieutenant Anderson had forbade him from going down to the lockup - yesterday. Today was not yesterday. Connor should have been relatively okay to try accomplishing this task.

Instead, his slightly-doubled vision refused to let him focus. Waking from stasis that morning, he had promptly noted how one hand, held up for appraisal, suddenly seemed to boast eight fingers. Like so many other windows, he swept it aside and tried to focus anyway. The investigation was ramping up in earnest. There wasn’t time to slow down. The deviants were only getting more daring, more organized, with every passing hour.

There had to be something in the journal that was of evidential merit.

Nick didn't agree with that idea, at least.

“You shouldn't be down here, Connor.”

No warning from his proximity sensors whatsoever.

He closed the book one-handed with a sharp _slap_. Spinal cables tensed, he straightened up.

When had he slouched to begin with?

Feigning a dismissive huff as best he could, Connor made an effort to reopen the journal, pretending to concentrate on something vital when all he saw was a blurry mass of text.

“Did you need something, Nick, or are you just here to shadow me for no substantive reason?”

“No, I - I came to see what you were doing.” Nick shuffled forward until he was standing beside him, nose wrinkled once he saw what the shorter RK was doing. “Hank said you weren't supposed to be down here, I thought. What’re you trying to do?”

His job. What else did it look like?

Biting back the scathing remark, Connor glanced sidelong at his newfound (unwanted) company. “I’m attempting to decipher this diary.”

The _why_ was undoubtedly obvious.

“You don't… look so good,” Nick changed the subject, probably eager to bring it to this from the start. “Do you feel okay? …Maybe you should sit down, upstairs. Whatever this is, I'm sure it can wait.”

Because that was his answer to everything - sit around, stay out of it, and the world would fix itself, all hunky-dory.

Taking a moment to compose his retort, to not snap out of spite, Connor turned a page. His actual appearance had suffered a bit, his clothes were a touch wrinkled, maybe a few (more) locks of hair were out of place, but the rest of him felt as impeccable as ever.

Right down to the healed-over wounds in the plastimetal of his arms.

“Why don’t _you_ go sit down? I was concentrating far more efficiently before you interrupted.”

Maybe the headache was proving more tenacious than he originally gave it credit for, too. But why bother admitting that? The effects on his attitude were clear enough. And Nicholas should take the hint, for _once_ , and buzz off.

Staying here, prodding him for answers, just a regular pest of a little bro-

Partner.

“What's wrong, Connor? You really don't sound like yourself. If you're feeling bad, we should go upstairs,” Nick continued to dig for an answer, wide eyes tracking his every movement, as if the tells would somehow give him the answer he wanted. “I'll go with you, and then if you're - sick, or something, we can figure out how to make you feel better.”

“Androids don’t get sick.” Argument made, Connor flipped another meaningless page deeper into the book. “And isn’t it atypical for me to sound a touch aggravated in conversing with you, normally?”

No, maybe not him, -52. That was the last version’s penchant. Before Hank Anderson blew its processors out with a .357.

That was certainly one way to clear accumulated dust and detritus.

“You haven't for awhile,” Nick mumbled, before taking a (needless) step closer, as if that would be able to show him something new. “And you didn't seem good yesterday, now you seem worse. I dunno, that's sort of like being sick.”

A few days since reactivation constituted ‘awhile’?

In a way, it felt like that. Between talking one android out of a self-destruct attempt, and then _feeling_ the effects of one doing so under his fingers-

Connor scoffed, despite the swell of pressure the action generated. His skewed vision went noticeably more off kilter before recentering. “Your point doesn’t sound so - convincing when you pretext it with uncertain terms like ‘seem’ and ‘sort of’.”

“You're just trying to get out of it now. You're not feeling good, are you, Connor?” His newfound critic took a deep breath, drawing himself up to his full height to stare down at him even more. “You need to go upstairs. If you don't, I'll - I'll go tell Dennis. And Hank.”

Just like the tattletale Gavin Reed proclaimed he was. How positively novel.

Hackles bristling, Connor resisted the urge to sidestep away - again. “I’m _fine_ , Nicholas. Your flair for exaggeration is coloring your evaluation. Nothing more.”

“I'm gonna tell them,” he threatened, for once not saying something about the name reversion. “Or I'll… force you to come with me.”

The latter threat made even less credible sense than if he threatened to actually work.

Leveling a flat, disbelieving stare at him, Connor didn’t mince words there:

“No. You wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I will!” With that, Nick grabbed one of his arms with both hands, perhaps emboldened by him thinking he wouldn't follow through. He gave a yank, sending them back together a few steps. “C'mon. Don't be difficult.”

The diary hit the floor. Waylaid only a moment by the shock, Connor managed to regain his footing, leaning away as much as the dual-grip let him. “W-what? N-no. Get off.”

A hazy replay of Chris Miller attempting to wrestle a combative HK400 into compliance jumped to mind.

“Will you come with me, upstairs, any other way?” Nick didn't wait for an answer, dragging them both a few more steps. “I don't think so.”

“Let go of me. You’re only - making a scene.” The podium just inside the sliding glass door made for a nice anchor point. Giving up his attempts to pry the fingers off his sleeve, Connor grabbed for the corner. The touchscreen surface chimed preemptively, ignorant of the struggle taking place. “ _Stop_ , I mean it. The evidence - needs to be put back.”

“I'll put it back - later,” Nick stood still for a moment, before giving a stronger tug than before, heels digging into the floor as much they could as they did so. “Stop making - _excuses_ , you probably can't even read that book right now! Come upstairs.”

For a split second, Connor thought to comm Dennis for help. The next ensuing second, he realized how bad an idea that might prove.

With a sound best described as an indignant yelp, he was wrenched away from the podium. It’s screen went dark as if it were sad to see them leave so soon.

“Let go!” Remembering very belatedly to fight back, he reached back, past the hands, to shove at his partner’s shoulder. Twisting around himself like a sidewinding cat, his spinal cables complained accordingly. “Get _off_ , before you force me to do something - regrettable.”

Nick let out a surprised whine at being shoved, grip loosening on Connor's arm before he righted himself again and tightened it back up. He gave a huff, before dragging the two of them back again. He did have height, weight, and therefore leverage on his side. “Like - what? You can't even get away, Connor, you're too sick! Stop fighting, I'm helping you!”

Was it possible for an android to dislocate its shoulder?

“Oh, sure. You’ve been _so_ helpful to our investigation, to date.” Clawing fruitlessly at the glass divider’s smooth edge, letting a rant fly midstruggle seemed to be his only recourse. Shrugging off his free arm’s sleeve, ignoring how unkempt it would make him appear, Connor managed to shrug off half his jacket. Half of that grip was on his sleeve, not the arm itself. “ _Honestly_ , Nick, there are so many other ways you could be helping. Umph. This is - _not_ one of them!”

Nick hurriedly readjusted his grip so it was more on his actual arm, one hand leaving to hold his other arm as well, so he had both of his (victim’s) arms pinned instead. “What, let you suffer down here, because you don't wanna admit you're sick? This seems to be the best way to help, please, stop fighting it!”

Knowing or not, the new grip on his left arm settled right atop the closed-over bullet wound. The still-healing rupture beneath twinged with fresh discomfort.

Connor tried to stifle the need to cringe. He didn’t need to. He didn’t need to communicate how that part of him was hurting.

“Get off.” Repeating the command, leaning away as much as the restraints allowed, he growled to cover up the whine at the back of his throat. “I’m not sick, I can’t be. You’re just - let _go_ , already!”

Pulled from the room, the automated door slid shut. The police badge emblazoned on the glass watched their fight most impassively.

“No! You're being stubborn, for _no_ reason!” Nick continued to tug him back towards the stairs, yanking him forward once to prevent him from leaning back, seemingly still oblivious to the wound on one arm. “Why can't you just - stop? Come upstairs, Connor!”

_Get OFF!_

Screaming over the commlink wasn’t standard procedure. Funneled directly into one’s ears, no way to buffer or block it out, normally they showed discretion in utilizing it.

Not this time.

Connor wasn’t one to yell, much less scream. Unless the situation demanded it.

Nick let out a startled cry at the scream, immediately coming to a standstill, one hand reflexively going up to cradle his ear, the other still clasped on one of his arms, albeit looser than before.

Jacket hanging from one shoulder, pulled seams and all, Connor almost made his escape. Bracing his stance once again, he made to lunge aside.

His gyros, already aspin from the ensuing tug-of-war, trying in vain to keep his overheated frame upright, failed in tandem. With a dismayed cry at the ensuing dizziness, Connor managed to break free only to land on his hands and knees. The impact jarred both his optical inputs, left and right falling out of sync.

Venting a hot gasp, he swallowed thickly and tried not to shudder at the surging throb in both shoulders.

“Connor!” Nick crouched down over him, making sure to keep some distance between them just in case of anything else - such as a swing to the face. “Do you - I'm gonna have Dennis come down, okay? He can help us, don't worry.” His LED went yellow, apparently sending a comm message to the missing member of their group.

Wonderful.

The almost-exact opposite of Zlatko’s a mere seventy-two hours later. Didn’t CyberLife build them to endure more than a couple days without suffering some haywire glitch or breakdown?

Oh, the woe of a testbed prototype.

“I’m fine.” Almost wheezing the words, summarily repeating himself as he couldn’t think to do anything else, aside from the spinning, Connor let his eyes reopen to slits. The gray-green floor in front of his face was a nice, neutral sight to orient on. “I can - keep going. I just - need a minute.”

Or two or three.

“No, you just need to relax. He'll be here soon, don't worry.”

Affirming as much, leaving him no time to look up, glare, and disagree, Dennis’ bemused voice filtered into their heads.

_You two are lucky I’m not busy right now. What’s wrong?_

_Connor's sick and being stubborn, Dennis, he can't get up right now. Please, come help._

_I’m not - sick._ Managing no more an articulate refusal than that, Connor tried to stand up. Eyes trained on the floor - something that didn’t shift and sway, no matter how badly his vision doubled - he managed to get one foot planted and sit up. The pressure easing off his arms was instant relief.

_He is. Please, Dennis, he's trying to get up!_

_Well, don’t let him. I’ll be there in a minute._

Most infuriating was the completely level way in which Dennis said it. As in, oh, sure, no reason to think this isn’t just exaggeration or making mountains out of molehills. Just the thing he needed was both partners piling on about how well off he wasn’t.

Take a hint, you deficients.

The empty sleeve of his jacket was dragging on the floor. Grabbing it up, he ducked to avoid any outspread hands, waiting to snag him.

He didn’t duck low enough. Fingers closed around the back of his neck - squarely over his memory access port.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Connor, you're just going to make yourself worse, please, stop,” Nick pleaded with him, not letting up on his neck, but thankfully not any more pressure. “Dennis will be here soon.”

Spoken as if he didn’t already _know_ , the nimrod.

“For the last - _time_ , I’m not - ” Cutting himself off, he tried to twist and claw at the hand holding him in place. Stuck on one knee, the only direction he could go from there was down. And while the floor was pleasantly cool, he wasn’t about to admit that. “Let go of me!”

Somewhere on his peripheral, he thought he heard the door at the top of the stairs open.

“Den-nis,” Nick whined, switching his attention from focusing on holding Connor down to the android on the top of the stairs. “Please, help him, he's obviously sick and overheating, but he's being _dumb._ Make him stop!”

Hurried footsteps raced over. Dennis took one look at their disheveled primary and immediately scowled. “You dumbass. What’re you trying to do?”

“I tried - to tell him - to leave me alone. Off!” Squirming, Connor managed to get one of his arms bent far enough back, grabbing at the offending arm holding him by the scruff. “I’m not sick!”

“If he wasn't sick, he would be the one grabbing me,” Nick protested, twisting his own arm away from the hand grabbing at it as much as he could, while keeping the same steady grip on his neck. “He's just being stubborn.”

“Doin’ a good job of it, too.” Watching with thinly-veiled impatience, Dennis grabbed for the overreaching, clawing hand, twisting it back to its proper orientation. “Connor, what’s your malfunction?”

Oh, several. Not that they needed to know.

Held static for the moment, he sighed through his nose, cycling a few deep breaths while his vision settled closer into something like focus again. “Being restrained, for starters.”

Nick let up the pressure on his neck, but let his hand still hover there, perhaps more confident that him and Dennis would be able to stop him if he attempted to get up again. “I only did it because you wouldn't - listen. You were gonna just keep pushing yourself, Connor, you can't do that.”

“You maxed out, didn’t you? All that shit at Stratford, compiled?” Oblivious to the dirty look his vulgarity earned him, Dennis reached over to tap at his temple with a skinless finger. He still held onto the arm in his grasp. “Run a diagnostic. Tell me I’m wrong.”

It wasn’t just the mending physical damages driving him to behave so hysterically. There was the, as yet, undiscussed matter of the uplink malfunction.

Connor wasn’t the only one who felt Simon die.

Perched on one knee, he let his shoulders sag. LED flashing yellow, he resumed staring at the floor. He couldn’t say Dennis was wrong. But he needn’t confirm what was already painfully obvious, either. A diagnostic readout would only lend them more ammunition to fight with.

“You need a break,” Nick mumbled, finally relenting in taking his hand away, shuffling back on his knees to give him some space. “Got yourself all stressed out.”

What he _needed_ was space.

Away.

From the two of them.

So what if his stress levels had stayed a little piqued ever since? He had told Hank he was over it, numerous times. He had tried telling his partners the same, in multiple ways since. And true to form, neither of them were listening to him.

Was the unspoken row sewn between them that deep-seated already?

“I was fine, until you turned up to make an issue of it.” Grumbling, Connor pulled his arm away.

“I don't think so. You were just being stubborn, forcing yourself to continue to work, even though you felt bad.”

So? Any human officer may have been granted the leeway of a couple days’ relaxation, surviving such a close call. Or, more to the point, they would have been given a few weeks’ leave, especially if they had caught a few bullets while in the act of apprehending a suspect.

Androids got no such grace period.

Last time he checked, Connor was still an android. Closed-over bullet holes in his arms were nothing he shouldn’t be able to endure.

“And now you’ve gone and made your point. Reduced me to this.” Indicating his harried, effectively ruffled appearance (and quietly ruing every new wrinkle), Connor made to stand up. Time to recoup on the floor seemed to have helped. “Can we call the matter… settled, and go on with the rest of our day, please?”

He asked nicely for naught.

“No! Dennis, stop him!” Nick pleaded, clearly not wanting to have to grab him again, not after how it had turned out last time. “He's gonna hurt himself, even worse.”

Against his will, his once-receding stress levels shot back up.

“Don’t - _even_.” Hastily scrambling back, Connor barely avoided the hand making to grab him again. The glass wall behind them _thunked_ at being pressed against. “Not again.”

It slipped out before he could check the impulse, much less rephrase it.

“Not again?” Frowning, Dennis squared his stance, folding his arms. “What, ‘not again’? What aren’t you telling us, Connor?”

Shit.

Now there really wasn’t any getting away. With his flagging systems, untreated damages, and dulled reaction times, he knew he couldn’t dodge both interventionists. And he couldn’t simply up and hide in report mode until further notice. Eventually the program would lock him out, if Amanda didn’t beat it to the punch.

He couldn’t induce stasis indefinitely. If he did, the recollection team would he notified. And he would be in even deeper water for not self-reporting.

Was that not a cornerstone of why he had partners, anyway?

Swallowing a lump of anxiety, he glanced aside.

“You never reported in.” Figuring it out, as a level-headed investigator like him would, Dennis scoffed. “My scans can’t be that far off. You didn’t inform CyberLife of your injuries.”

Damages. Not injuries.

Pressing a hand on the window, half-using it for support, Connor focused on getting to his feet, with slow, careful movements. He declined the idea to correct the other RK’s syntax. If shouting and pleading at them to just leave him alone wasn’t working, keeping silent was his next best recourse.

Dennis could figure the rest out on his own, without any confirmations, if he was really that concerned.

And the same went for Nicholas. He could use the processors CyberLife gave him, rather than ask, ask, _ask_ and be handed every answer.

Sidelong, Connor spared them a heated glare.

It didn’t seem to melt anything.

“Now there’s a glower that belongs in the English dictionary.” Never without his wise remarks, Dennis stepped forward, offering a hand. “Come on. You can be petulant all you want upstairs.”

Nick backed off a few more steps, climbing two of the steps in expectation for Dennis to lead them somewhere.

Avoiding the latter’s offered hand, Connor headed for the stairs, mindful to give the former a wide berth. Eyes forward, he pulled his arm through the jacket’s empty sleeve.

Belatedly, he realized there was a new gap along the seam between the shoulder and bicep. Air wafted in through the fabric where it hadn’t before. The struggle to not be removed from the locker had been enough to rip it asunder.

Tempting as it was to growl and bemoan that damage to his wardrobe, he hadn’t the computing power left to care.

——-

It wasn’t as though he was going to be paraded before the squad room in his disheveled state, exactly. Dennis and Nicholas weren’t the type to revel in mockery of the others, even when said others might have somehow earned a bit of humiliation via making boneheaded choices.

But upon opening the archive room doors, faced with a most-stern-looking Hank Anderson, Connor almost stepped back. The two androids trailing behind him suddenly made for a very tempting hiding place.

He had been downstairs without permission, after all.

And where was the keycard he had taken, thinking he was so sly at the time?

Oh, that’s right. It was back on the evidence room floor, along with Rupert’s untranslated journal.

“Huh. Thought I told you to stay away from here.” Hank raised an eyebrow at him, glancing at the other two before focusing back on Connor. “Looks like you shouldn't be anywhere right now, though. The hell's up with you?”

Thinking twice of his latent vow of silence, Connor paid only a bare glance at the diagnostic overlay only his eyes could see. Yes, with his ruffled state, maybe he could pass for looking under the weather. But androids couldn’t sweat, or shiver uncomfortably, and any feverish shine currently present in his eyes could be written off as an illusion.

But, again, if he didn’t say anything to confirm or refute that, how would Anderson know the difference?

Within twenty seconds, Dennis stepped up to sell him out: “He’s experienced a minor overheat, Lieutenant. That’s all.”

“That's all? Sounds like you're overworkin’ yourself, big surprise there,” Hank grumbled, before gesturing for them to continue their way into the hallway, taking his own step back to make space. “You two force him to stop, then?”

“Nick tried. Then he called for backup when it didn’t work.” Explaining without so much as a dash of remorse, Dennis half pushed him past the door, out into the corridor. Thankfully the benches before the holding cells were vacant at the moment. “Connor gave up soon as I got there. He knows he couldn’t fight both of us off in this state.”

Hands held at his sides, the android in question frowned, but kept his mouth firmly shut, eyes forward.

Anderson wasn’t that concerned _about_ him. He was only worried insofar as one of the prototypes he had been tasked with supervising had blatantly broken a rule. He might be of half a mind to call CyberLife already.

“Sounds about right. So, you ready to listen to some reason, then? You need a break.” Hank looked around with a shrug. “I'm sure we can find somewhere for you to sit down where nobody will bother you.”

“And I’ll requisition you a new jacket,” Dennis promised, in an apparent deal-sweetener. “I mean, this tear is so little, no one should really notice it’s there, but - ”

Snatching his arm away, Connor only vented another short, hot gust of air. He didn’t need to be babied. And he didn’t need to suffer their coddling. They were only relishing in watching him squirm under all the unnecessary attention.

“He's upset,” Nick offered, even though it was clear to everyone. He shuffled a bit away from Connor again, staying as far out of his way as he possibly could. “He doesn't want to.”

“I can see that. Doesn't mean he's gettin’ out of it, not after pushin’ himself so hard.” Giving a sigh of his own, Hank crossed his arms. “You'd work yourself half to death, given the chance, so stop poutin’. It's for your own good.”

_(Sorry, Lieutenant. It’s for your own good.)_

-51 made such a comment before shoving the man into the bathtub in preparation for a cold shower awakening.

Great. Even the words of his former iteration were now somehow aligned against him.

Brows furrowed, Connor paid Hank a disdainful glance before stalking over to one of the empty benches. The station was very lacking in comfortable places to lounge. And even if it weren’t, he didn’t need to make himself cozy.

So long as he wasn’t actively working, that ought to indirectly satisfy the human’s order. It wasn’t as though Hank knew enough about android design to offer much useful advice besides. His idea of solving a social relations flaw was a bullet through the forehead.

Without a pause to consider the change in motion, he turned and sat, albeit pressed into the corner formed by the armrest.

Dennis scoffed at the pseudo-compliant display. “The pouting may last a bit, Lieutenant. I’d recommend we give him some space.”

“Pfft. Sure, we can leave him to do some sulkin’ on his own.” Giving him a look, Hank shook his head with some exasperation. “Head on out, then, you two. Go do whatever you were doin’.”

How ineloquent an instruction, as ever.

Eyes directed firmly ahead, he paid the departing footsteps no attention. One set, short and assured, was followed by the second semi-shuffle of soles not quite clearing the ground.

Again, how typical.

But at least it meant he wouldn’t be disturbed for a while. That much was ideal.

Mindful not to strain the underlying damage, he slowly folded one, then both hands into his lap, draping one hand over the other. Relieved of the task of decrypting the diary, all his current energies could be put toward cooling down and mending.

So he wasn’t standing at ease, as androids were expected to, and what did it matter? Not as if there weren’t other benches -

“Hey, kid,” Hank suddenly said, snapping his fingers at the same time to try and reaquire Connor’s attention. One hand went for him suddenly, gently grabbing hold of one of the android’s ears with no warning. “You're gonna listen to what I'm gonna say, right? No spacin’ out on me, now.”

On the contrary, actually. Now seemed just perfect to launch into a tirade of how such fawning was completely superfluous.

Glancing first at the fingers gripping his ear, Connor gave the policeman a most annoyed look.

 _Really?_ it said.

Couldn’t the man see he was trying to start to recuperate, per his orders?

Hank scoffed at his saturnine expression. “No, none of that. I'll leave you alone in a minute. Listen, Connor, you can act like a brat all you want, because that's what you're doin’. Actin’ like a regular old brat, fussing about not wantin’ to just take a break. If you were human I’d say you need a good, long nap. I'm just lettin’ you know that it doesn't change anythin’. Acting like that won't make us leave you alone, okay? It only makes them worry more, and me, too.”

Odd. They didn’t seem to prefer this mode any more than his usual, more-argumentative self. That was reason enough to worry, why not just phone in the problem? A technician from CyberLife could perform the necessary recalibrations if his work performance was less than optimal.

Thinking that over with as little free thought space as he had, his ventilation system purged another hot breath of air from his lungs. The readout of the invisible vapor’s composition read it was the same temperature as the sigh before it.

But if that was what it took to effectively cool down, and not have to call the aforementioned technician…

Connor focused again on the fingers resting against his face. They were substantially colder than his artificial epidermis presently felt. Automatically his sensors did the basic subtraction to explain the difference:

_Core system temperature: 103°_

_Immobilization recommended_

_All secondary routines: suspended_

That much added up. Android biosystems weren’t so far of those of the average human.

“Yeah, you're on your way to bein’ out of it, if you aren't already,” Hank mused, before going contemplatively quiet for a second. “We ain't this way to be mean to you, kid. You can't constantly work yourself the way you do and expect everyone to stand aside and let you do that, eh? No need to pout about it.”

But what good was he if he wasn’t working?

He hadn’t been sent here to be ineffectual, by and large, and take up space. He was sent with a task. Regardless of his physical status, he couldn’t exactly call in sick. He didn’t have that luxury. Androids couldn’t get sick.

Yet here he was, seemingly doing just that, in android terms.

Ever so slightly, he almost leaned into the touch. For a second, it didn’t matter who was offering it. Just the presence of it and the reassurance behind it being there was oddly pleasant. Something that said he needn’t be troubled about being unable to work. He could take a brief rest, if that was what he needed, and everyone concerned actually would feel a lot less anxious for it.

Catching the lapse in concentration, Connor blinked sharply, pulling away from the grip on his ear.

Moment over.

So they didn’t approve of his ‘pouting’ behaviors, either. Fine. He would do well to avoid repeating them. No more kicking and shouting in being dragged away from a task. An encore of such a performance may just prove irreversibly demeaning.

Sighing again, he left his eyes droop halfway shut, LED dulling from yellow back to blue.

Message received.

“There. Take it easy. A little shuteye won’t kill ya.” Patting his cheek for effect, Anderson left the matter there. He strode away without a backwards look.

Connor waited until the man was out of sight before lowering his chin to his collar. Strange as it may have looked for someone to sleep sitting up, it was just what he needed.

The most advanced prototype CyberLife had ever created.

But he couldn’t pout and sleep at the same time.


End file.
